


Safety

by tsv



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5969818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsv/pseuds/tsv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Brock Samson was the only thing that ever made you actually feel safe. For as far back as you can remember, really."</p><p>Brock, Dr. Venture and their complicated feelings for each other, told from alternating perspectives. Set between the beginning of Season 4 and the beginning of Season 6.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safety

You are the only thing that has ever made Doc actually feel safe.

He admitted it to you, once, over drinks at the end of a long day. Just an aside about the differences you’d made in his life, the contrast between you and Myra. It was a simple, pure truth — and yet so personal, so revealing to hear coming from him that you couldn’t help being surprised.

Apparently, your resulting expression clued him in on what an embarrassingly honest thing this was to say to you, and he quickly tried to cover up his vulnerability with a joke about how he'd had a few too many. You knew he hadn't, but you left it alone anyway, for his sake.

You never forgot about what he said. Remembering the regret in the look he gave you makes your stomach churn a little.

You can believe it, really. Doc's cartoon — you never watched it, but he'd talked it up plenty — was practically a catalog of childhood trauma through kidnapping and other perilous circumstances. Jonas Sr. didn’t seem to care much for preventative measures, even if he always rescued poor Rusty in the end.

It made sense that someone growing up like that wouldn't be able to trust anyone to protect them. Except you. You’d spent years earning that trust. You're the best damn bodyguard anyone could've asked for, after all.

Or, at least, you used to be.

You recall his words again when you're about halfway across the damn planet from the Venture compound, floating above a rainforest in a S.P.H.I.N.X. helicopter, and you distantly wonder what that means for him now.

Then, you firmly tell yourself that guilt should be the last thing on your mind. You’ve got work to do.

—

Brock Samson was the only thing that ever made you actually feel safe. For as far back as you can remember, really.

You get pulled out of your bed enough times by villains, monsters or killer robots, and some part of you stops knowing what safety means. Safety, to most people, is the knowledge that going to bed probably won't end with you waking up dangling above a shark pit in some evildoer's lair. You never had that kind of luxury.

Safety, then, became the knowledge that a giant crocodile loose in your bedroom would end with a very angry bodyguard trying to snap its neck with his bare hands in front of you. Or that evildoers' lairs weren't something you ever spent more than a day in before Brock came charging in with nothing but a wild look in his eyes and a very large hunting knife. He'd spent nearly two decades proving that you were safe in his care.

And that was enough. At the very least, it was enough to (usually) keep the nightmares at bay.

But then he left. Every bit as suddenly as he’d come into your life to begin with, he left, completely blindsiding you.

Didn’t sink in for weeks. You'd appreciated — needed — his protection more than you ever realized, so losing it hurt twice as much. And of course, once it _did_ sink in, the nightmares came back, which only added insult to injury.

God, you try not to resent him for it. Hell, you spend a lot of time trying not to even _think_ about him. But when you’re sitting in your bedroom with nothing but shots for company, the ideas still weigh heavily on your mind — the abruptness of it all, your evaporating ideas of safety, and how pitiful a replacement Sergeant Hatred is.

You told Hatred, one day, that you resented Brock for leaving your boys behind. He was like a second father to them. But more than anything, you think, you resent the idea of him leaving you. Because you'd built yourself up to think he never would, never could, and used that like an anchor in a sea of self-doubt.

Why? Did you really think he could genuinely like you as a person, even if no one else did? That he'd miss you? That you actually had something special?

That it could've ever turned into more than that?

Your lip curls. You curse him, quietly, mournfully. But you feel more like you're cursing yourself and how pathetic you are.

You take another drink.

—

Seeing him again now and then, a natural consequence of working from the base nested on the Venture property, is like a nostalgic fever dream. Comfortable, but surreal. His smile, as rare as always, stirs something inside you, makes something _ache_ in you that you don’t have time to think about.

It's... nice.

Less pleasant is the knowledge that him and the boys are in a different pair of hands now. A few years ago, you would've died before you let that happen, not without thoroughly screening the candidates your damn self. But he's even using your old room, your old watch. What changed?

You’d planned to spend more time keeping an eye on them between missions, even if you had to keep your presence a secret at first, but they seem fine. Your family's fine, even with the cloning lab "safety net" gone from the picture. And while most of you is infinitely relieved to know this, your chest still feels tight.

You're pissed off, and you honestly don't know why. Are you upset that you were replaced without issue, that you weren't as invaluable as you thought? Would you rather they have floundered and suffered helplessly without you?

You even sneak into Doc's room one night to reassure yourself that you're missed. You used to check in on him like this in the past, make sure he wasn't sleeping too terribly. But there's no satisfaction to be gained from watching him twitch around from a nightmare caused by your absence. Only a raw, itching guilt. You start to think you’ve spent too much time feeling guilty lately.

So you start telling yourself, as well as anyone else who asks, that it was just another job. No hard feelings. Doesn't matter now. All that matters is whatever else you've got on your plate. They can handle themselves. They're Ventures. Which means _stupid_ , but it also means _durable_.

Even when S.P.H.I.N.X. becomes O.S.I. again, when you're trying harder than ever to convince yourself that this is your life now, you still keep a worn photo of Dean and Hank in your wallet.

—

Seeing him lately makes you feel clear-headed in the fog. Makes you feel twenty years younger, takes you back to standing in the tremendous shadow of your new college roommate, all frightened giddiness and sweaty palms. He always looks taller than you remember, wider. Everything is always just - impossibly larger than life when it comes to Brock Fucking Samson.

All the resentment and bitterness evaporates when he's around. You can never stay mad at him when you’re actually occupying the same space. It's just too bad the context this time is a funeral, and you only catch glances of his imposing form looming in the very back, like a bouncer.

Laughably, he probably thinks you don't even notice he's there. But somehow, having him here makes you feel slightly better about everything, even with the emptiness gnawing at the pit of your stomach. Focusing on the idea of his presence is easier than making yourself look at the smouldering wreck of your family home in the distance, or the framed picture of your late brother by the podium.

He's family. Brock being here feels like home, even if you no longer have one. You'll find somewhere, sure. Ventures are nothing if not durable and adaptable to circumstances. You'll keep.

And yet, things look grim. You’d been doing badly enough with the finances BEFORE the compound burned down. Hell, half the reason you’d gone up to Gargantua-2 was to ask J.J. for money. So much for that. You sink down in your seat and curse him, mentally, terrible as that is to do given the circumstances. Stupid J.J. Always more successful, more rich, more — _hirsute_.

Pathetic.

But then you receive the news.

The tiny piece of paper that declares you the heir to your brother's ample throne, to the tune of several billion dollars.

Oh, nothing could've really prepared you for that one.

Once the shock wears off, some part of your subconscious reminds you that you should probably feel guilty about feeling happy at a funeral, even if you don't. Hell, you could practically open J.J.’s casket right now and kiss the damn man, if only he even had a corpse in there.

The boys look almost as surprised as you feel, and you doubt they even realize what this means for them. Hatred is grinning at you, even if he looks slightly bemused at your gallery of expressions.

You even think you see, for the briefest moment, Brock smiling at you from the back. Probably imagining it, you tell yourself. Still.

Suddenly, you're all frightened giddiness and sweaty palms, and eager for new beginnings.

—

You don't even have to think about it when Hunter hands you the opportunity to bodyguard for the Ventures again. God Damn it, you've missed them like hell. It’s about time. You wish you could say you regret that you ever left in the first place, but you don’t. You only wish it’d been on better terms.

Shore Leave grins knowingly at you when you deliver the news. You quietly flip him off. It's kind of annoying how fast he figured out you had a soft spot for Doc.

Before you know it, you're in an O.S.I. limo on your way to New York.

The building is, unsurprisingly, huge. What _is_ surprising is the complete lack of staff to populate it. You have a feeling you've already guessed one of his first mistakes, and rub your face as you step into the elevator. You have forty-some floors worth of time to think about how you're gonna protect this entire thing alone, and to remember what a handful your new charge is, has always been.

_Damn it, Doc._

But despite it all, you still feel a smile coming on. That's just like him, isn't it?

The elevator door chimes. You take a deep breath and step on through.

The boys both look overjoyed to see you. It takes all your strength not to grin like an idiot as they each rush in for a hug. God, Hank has grown. They both have. Hank's haircut could use work, admittedly, but for a moment, you're overwhelmed with pride.

You offer Doc the chance to get in on it, once he picks up his jaw from the floor, and he tries to look as reluctant as possible, but his bony arms cling to your middle like he's missed you even more than his sons have, not that he'd ever admit it.

Hugging him back, you wonder if he's always felt this much like a bag of bones in a turtleneck sweater. You squeeze him tight enough that he complains. Your heart swells.

The next few days are a lot of settling in and getting things done. Busy, but fun. You missed this. Hank’s eager to tell you about everything he’s done in your absence, with more than a little stretching the truth. Dean’s more introverted, the way he’s always been, but you can tell he’s been dying for someone to talk to.

Doc, too, is constantly gravitating towards you, awkward and fidgety like he always wants to discuss something but can't get himself to start. Maybe he wants to discuss a lot of things.

Or maybe he just wants to spend time in your presence. You find that you really don’t mind the thought of that. You’re his bodyguard, after all. A single night of drinking together turns into a routine of nightly drinks on the penthouse terrace, watching the city live and breathe, the neon lights flickering.

You haven't seen him smile this much in a long time. Could be the money, but you'd like to think you're contributing.

Doc gets this vulnerable, faraway look in his eyes after he drinks enough, starts letting his head drift onto your shoulder, his beard tickling your skin. If he minds your arm loosely curling around him, he doesn't show it. Almost looks like he's ready to fall asleep.

It occurs to you, then, that he feels _safe_.

You tease him about how tired he looks. The clumsy smile he flashes you in return catches you off guard. Something inside you aches again.

That same ache tells you to kiss him. The whiskey doesn't help.

So you do.

Now it's his turn to be caught off guard.

Then he grins against your lips, melts into you like it's nothing. And it feels like home.

—

You don't know what time it is. Morning, probably, judging by the sunlight trying to pry your eyelids open, but you resist. Don't want to wake up just yet. Your body aches, dull and almost pleasant, like from a good workout.

Warm, tan arms wrap around your bare middle and pull you close. You've seen these same arms kill people before, more than you can count. His hands easily dwarf your own in size.

But to you, in this moment, the embrace feels like nothing but protection. You faintly nuzzle his chest (you don't mind the metal plate anymore) with a drowsy smile.

You're safe. He's home.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry if this is rough or out of character, I haven't written for this fandom before. To be honest, I haven't written fic in a while in general.
> 
> Please comment and let me know what you thought! Thank you for reading!


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